Blinking Lemon

My father’s nose was the first thing I know I loved about him.  The Berkman schnoz.  He always liked to point out that of the three times it had been broken, twice was by friends.  Like all noses broken before the ready availability of plastic surgery, his leaned across his face at a quirky angle.  It seemed to me to be almost an independent organ, capable of expressing thoughts and opinions of its own.  I don’t know about penis envy, but at 5 years old, I was terribly envious of my father’s unmistakable nose.

His hands were a second fascination.  Wide with beefy fingers, they were experts in so many mysterious things.  Pliers and knives, torches and saws, and most magical of all, the curvy guitars that lived under the bed from Sunday through Wednesday.  On Thursday night, the ritual of tuning and string changing commenced, and the guitars left the house with my father for the 4 nights of music jobs he played every week.

My father’s feet are the part of his body I remember most viscerally, though.  There is a certain poetic justice in this.  As a child, we are located much closer physically, for many years, to our parents feet than to their faces.  I memorized my father’s boots, square toed and black.  The sound of the zipper pulling up to close them is so vivid to me that it has made me a boot wearer, lately, just to hear the sound again, now that he is gone.

Dad had a lot of flaws.  His music job was an occasion to collect girlfriends and hide money from my mom.  He could not quell his perfectionism enough to allow music to grow in my sister or me.  But at 46 years of age, in 1970, he was perfectly happy to skip along Wabash Avenue, in broad daylight, holding his daughters’ hands.  I am telling you, men did NOT DO THAT in 1970.

After daycamp ended in the summer, my father was our daycare, while my mom worked at her full time job.  This meant dragging us from one little jeweller to another while he left and picked up custom job orders.  I am telling you, men did NOT DO THAT in 1970.  There was no take your daughter to work day, never mind, take your six year old twins with you to work every day.

I stared at my fathers feet countless times as we stood in creaking old elevators that smelled of cigars and oily metal.  I watched them tread briskly along marble and tile hallways past jewelry showrooms, the cuffs of his black trousers flapping like wings to speed us along.  The tedium of sitting in hard plastic chairs in grey rooms full of parts and supplies and cracked linoleum was excruciating, though I suppose it only lasted a few minutes in adult time.

Back on the street, under the elevated train, however, my father became mine again.  “Daddy, let’s skip!” we’d say, pulling on his hand.  “You want to skip, huh?”  broadly smiling with his teeth and his nose.  And then we would fly, each holding his hand, never taking our eyes off the blur of his boots plundering the pavement in great leaps, as he pulled us along.  His boots, rushing past faster than we could possibly keep up, cast a hypnotic spell.  Fixated on them, black flashes striking then bouncing up in an instant, we felt the secret of flight and landing, accompanied by the squealing rumble of the train overhead.

The thing that has touched me most, since Dad’s death, is how deeply everyone loved him.  Mixed emotions persist, of course, but it’s the power of love that gives the strength to put those issues on hold, and either grieve, or laugh or make small talk about him.  For many of us, we love each other because we loved him.  How do you like them apples, kiddo?

This beautiful obituary was authored by my oldest brother, Howard, who had the unique distinction of knowing
Marv the longest of any of his kids.  I have added a category for Marv Berkman Stories.  If any readers want to contribute,
please do so in the comments section; then I'll move them to the Marv Berkman Stories page.
All comments are reviewed before posting to the blog.

Marv Berkman died Monday November 2 in the evening at Pikes Peak
Hospice in Colorado Springs at age 85. He was one of the mainstays of
the vibrant Rush St. night club, cabaret, restaurant scene. He was an
excellent guitarist, raconteur, singer, and fabulist. He worked at
Sasha's immediately after WWII, Caruso's from 1948 til '50; and
Riccardo's with accordionist Bobby Rossi from '51 or so into the
early eighties. He played all styles of music. He and Bobby wearing
their trademark red shirts were the ultimate strollers as much a part
of Riccardo's as the only outdoor cafe in Chicago until the laws were
changed decades later, the palette shaped doors ( the smaller of
which was for Gus, old Ric's Great Dane ), or the magnificent
paintings behind the equally iconic palette shaped bar. Marv was well
known to diners, drinkers, opera enthusiasts, artists, and
jounalists. He counted Mike Royko and Steve Goodman among his close
friends. Bill Broonzy played with him. Chet Atkins played his guitar
and said of his giant old Gibson arch-top, "Marv, playing that guitar
is like digging coal." Marv and Bobby accompanied visiting opera and
stage stars in late night champagne fueled jam sessions, as well as
going from table to table fielding all requests, from show tunes to
blues to ballads to country to ethnic melodies.

His childhood is virtually incomprehensible. Born in 1925, son of
immigrant intellectuals Ralph and Bronia Berkman who were desperately
poor, struggling to make ends meet entertaining in the second floor
clubs of the Old West Side during the Great Depression, getting
evicted with shocking regularity; Marv started playing on the streets
and going from saloon to saloon with his cousin Aaron Cainoff at age
thirteen. From that point on he basically was on his own rarely
staying at home. He dropped out of high school his freshman year to
devote himself to playing and making a living. He was almost entirely
self taught. Marv and Aaron played in South Haven and the jewish
resorts on the eastern shore of Lake Michigan. By the time he was
sixteen he was playing in various small bands, mostly on the North
Side, sometimes playing as far afield as Lake Geneva or Fox Lake.

Marv joined the Army in late '42 after first being rejected for
having pneumonia. He spent most of the War in the Air Corps in the
Aleutian Islands; first as a radio gunner in B-24's, later running
radio direction finding equipment requiring him to spend days on end,
skiing over frozen terrain solo, and as radio man on crash boats in
the Bering Sea. Of couse Marv also played guitar in various bands and
groups in the area.

Like a lot of GI's he returned home to marry and start a family. Marv
and his younger  brother Anatol went to jewelry school on the GI
Bill. His older brother Norman was playing piano and accordion at
Sardi's, in the Rush St area. That connection was the beginning of
his four decade presence in that unique and vibrant scene. With a few
side trips feeling out other gigs he stayed mainly at Riccardo's. He
also played innumerable private parties, weddings and affairs. He
built classical guitars and designed instruments for the Regal Guitar
Company.During his entire Chicago career Marv worked other jobs to support
his various families. First selling tires and pots and pans, later as
an optician and jeweler. He managed the Devon Ave. House of Vision
for many years and lin the late sixties owned and operated the
Jewelry Store in Piper's Alley. Later he worked for Perl Vision and
had his own optical business.

He moved to Colorado Springs twelve years ago and was active playing
with a country band in clubs and old folks homes. He played
frequently for the last few years at the Pike's Peak Hospice.

Marv was preceded in death by his parents, Ralph and Bronia Berkman;
and his brothers Norman Berkman of Marco Island Florida, and Anatol
of Hoffman Estates. Marv is survived by his first wife, Harriet
Farkas, their children Howard Berkman and Felice Sage; his second
wife Barbara Berkman and their children James Berkman, Brenna
Hopkins, and Pamela Berkman; and his beloved life partner of the last
twenty-five years, Judy Scholz and step-daughter Katie. He left five
grand children.

Marv touched many lives and had many friends.  Marv loved books and
story telling both short and tall.  Marv loved women and many loved
him. He was loved by his children. He was a wonderful uncle and
surrogate grampa, a great companion and teacher inspiring such singer
songwriter Steve Goodman and almost all the working guitarist of his
era. He was a father and comrade in arms to his son-in-law Darrell
Sage, and an uncle and grampa to Jen and Ken Farmer and their two
sons. He gave the gift of a profession to Master goldsmith Neal
Pollack, and his musician son Howard Berkman. Sadly, as a father and
husband, like many entertainers, he was spectacularly ill equipped.
Happily he was loved by his children and partner, all of whom save
one were with him in his final hours. His music and charm will be
missed by many.